[Age of Reckoning 01] - Empire in Chaos

by Anthony Reynolds - (ebook by Undead)

  Then the dread lord of Chaos turned his eye back towards Annaliese, and he spoke. His voice was that of a daemon, a thousand voices speaking within him, and he spoke not in any tongue that would be understood by the soldiers of the Empire.

  Nevertheless, his words were understood, as if reformed in the air, making them comprehensible to all.

  “I am but the herald of the Raven Host, its harbinger. Know before you die that everything you have ever known will be smashed asunder, destroyed and forgotten. Everyone you have ever known will be slaughtered and their souls tortured for all eternity for daring to resist the great gods. And now, bitch of the weakling man-god Sigmar,” he said, his voice full of madness and horror, “you shall die.”

  The warlord guided his steed forwards, looming over Annaliese, and she could feel the hot, foetid breath of the creature, smell the diabolic stink of its unnatural presence. She lifted her hammer up into the air before her, a seemingly futile, tokenistic show of defiance. She felt very small and utterly alone, and the voice of the creature pounded in her mind.

  Your soul shall be a delicate morsel for the Great Changer of Ways.

  She felt the edges of her sanity begin to fray, and her heart was beating so hard in her chest it blocked out all sound, blood pumping heavily in her head.

  Any moment, she would be cut down, impaled upon the glaive wielded by this fell lord of destruction, her bones smashed beneath the pawing hooves of his infernal steed. Her soul would be ripped screaming from her shattered physical form and enslaved to the daemon gods of Chaos, there to exist in an eternity of torment amidst a roiling nightmare.

  “Sigmar,” she whispered, her voice sounding tiny and insignificant against the inferno of hateful sounds entering her head. She prayed that their bloodthirsty enemy had been held at bay for long enough that the armies of the Emperor in Talabecland would not be overwhelmed. She prayed that her sacrifice and the sacrifice of the soldiers of the Ostermark was not in vain.

  A thunderous din rose amongst the chaotic roar of battle raging around her, and she raised her face to the heavens in despair as death drew near. The deafening rumble of thunder increased in intensity, and dimly she registered the sound of brass horns blaring like infernal trumpets summoning her to hell.

  The flaming blue eye flicked to the right, its slitted pupil contracting and expanding, and Annaliese looked around her in confusion.

  A living wall of knights appeared, smashing through the enemy ranks and crushing the warriors of Chaos beneath them. She saw lances pierce chests daubed with infernal symbols, and swords smash down through horned helmets. The knights were armoured in gleaming silver, and mighty plumes of red and white rippled in the air on their helms. They bore shields of white emblazoned with Imperial wreathed skulls and crosses, the symbols of the Emperor himself. They ploughed through the enemy, and Annaliese stared up at them in wonder and awe.

  With a roar of denial and outrage, the lord of Chaos swung his glaive, the daemon weapon wreathed in coalescing light as it ripped through the air, renting the fabric of reality. The blade sheared through the chest of the first knight as if it were paper, cleaving the warrior in two. With his return blow, the warlord thrust the blade of his weapon deep into the armoured chest of another knight’s steed, lifting the screaming beast high into the air and tossing it and its rider over his shoulder.

  Annaliese stumbled as knights galloped past her in a blur and she expected to be smashed to the ground and trampled at any moment. An arm steadied her, and she saw Grunwald at her side, his arm a bloody ruin. She saw the witch hunter staring up at the knights thundering around them in amazement, the pain of his wound forgotten. It was as if they were cupped in the protective hands of Sigmar Himself as they stood there unscathed by the mayhem around them.

  The lord of Chaos roared again, the deafening sound filled with rage and defiance, as his bodyguard was lost beneath the lances, swords and hooves of the knights.

  He speared his glaive through the lowered visor of another knight, punching him from the saddle as the blade burst from the back of his skull, and swung the butt of the weapon into the head of a steed, breaking its neck and sending its rider flying through the air.

  Lances pierced the body of the warlord and he staggered, but refused to fall. Another pair of knights were hacked in two by the fell glaive. Swords struck his ornate armour, sending the warlord reeling, and another knight was decapitated. The flaming blue eye flicked left and right, seeking escape, but there was none to be had. The damned warrior ripped the head from a knight’s shoulders with the flick of his wrist, but the mighty warlord was at last driven to his knees as a sword blazing with white light slashed across his chest, carving through armour and the mutated flesh beneath.

  His face lit with the cold blue light emanating from the daemonic eye, Kurt Helborg, Grand Marshal of the Reiksguard knights, dismounted and stood before the broken enemy warlord. He glared down at the champion of the Raven Host in hatred and loathing.

  “Know that the Empire will resist you always,” he hissed. “Not until the last drop of blood in the last soldier of this land is spilled shall you have victory.”

  With a roar of fury, the Reiksmarshal thrust his glowing sword, the Runefang of Solland, straight into the Chaos champion’s face. He drove the point through the eye socket of the warlord’s helmet with such force that it emerged hissing and spitting from the back of the skull, shearing through his ornate, horned helmet. The Reiksmarshal continued pushing the blade on until the hilt of the Runefang struck bone.

  With a sucking sound of displaced air the blue eye flickered and disappeared, and the warlord of the Raven Host collapsed to the ground, dead.

  EPILOGUE

  Led by the mighty charge of the Reiksguard knights, the Order of the Griffon descended on the battlefield and smashed through the reeling enemy army with the force of a battering ram. Thousands on both sides were killed in the slaughter, but at last the field was clear of the foe.

  “This is but the beginning,” said the Reiksmarshal Kurt Helborg, his carefully weighted words echoing across the bloodied but triumphant army.

  “The armies of the Raven Host are massing. They overrun Ostland and Talabecland, and the Ostermark is in ruin. They march south, and push towards Altdorf.”

  There were mutterings of shock and fear amongst the soldiers, and the Reiksmarshal raised his hand for silence.

  “But there is still hope, even in this hour of darkness. Your victory this day shall be a golden light in the grim night, an inspiration that speaks of the proud fighting spirit of our nation. You have held this field—and if it were lost, then the ruin of the Empire was assured. Unchecked, this horde would have marched through Talabecland unmolested, and fallen on the flank of our armies there. In the Emperor’s name, I thank you for your bravery and your resolve.”

  The Reiksmarshal turned his mighty steed around, stalking back along in front of the serried ranks of weary soldiers.

  “Far to the north, the great city Praag has been taken by the enemy, just as it was during the time of Magnus the Pious. But there is still hope.”

  Not a sound came from the gathered army, for every soldier was intent on the words of the Reiksmarshal.

  “The Order of the Griffon marches to war. Even now in Kislev, in the frozen north, our armies lay siege to Praag. They fight to reclaim it for the forces of order.

  “Still there is hope!” he bellowed. “With brave soldiers like you men of the Ostermark, the Empire will hold firm. In the name of our founder and patron god, I swear this to you, soldiers of the Ostermark: we none of us shall rest until the forces of destruction are shattered utterly!”

  The Reiksmarshal’s strong voice rose to a roaring fury, and he bellowed his words across the gathered army, his face set in determination and hatred.

  “Together we will push them back to the north and reclaim Praag, but we shall not be content with that. No, we shall hound them like rabid wolves, and hunt them down wherever they seek to hid
e! We shall drive them back to the hell from whence they came and pursue them still. Far to the north we shall march, taking the fight to them directly, and we shall not rest until the Inevitable City itself lies in smoking ruin! For Sigmar!”

  The roaring of the army was deafening, as men shouted their promise, praised Sigmar and bashed the hafts of their weapons against the ground.

  “Ever been to Praag, manling?” said Thorrik, looking up at Grunwald. The witch hunter smiled wryly, fingering the pendant on his long black coat—a bronze emblem representing the Order of the Griffon.

  Annaliese turned away from the cheering, registering the empty space beside her. She pushed her way through the cheering crowd and at last broke free of the press. She saw the grey-cloaked figure of Eldanair walking away to the south-east.

  Sensing her gaze upon him, he turned, and their eyes met.

  She knew now what it was that the tattoo upon his cheek meant. Vengeance. Perhaps regarding her as safe now, he was leaving to seek those that had killed his kin, and it was a path he needed to walk alone.

  Without further ceremony, Eldanair pulled his hood up over his head and walked away.

  Annaliese stared after him until the elf disappeared into the mist, fading away like a wraith, a shadow warrior disappearing into the gloom.

  Karl was filled with bitterness as he watched from a distance. Watching the elf depart, the flames of hatred burnt fiercely in his icy blue eyes.

  Scanning by Anakwanar Sek,

  proofing by Red Dwarf,

  formatting and additional

  proofing by Undead.